


you're gonna grin and bear it

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: First Dates, M/M, Makeover, Smokey Gordon Is A Troll, helpful friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Shifty and Tab are about to go on their first date. They're both nervous, and both dealing with it in not-so-different ways.





	you're gonna grin and bear it

**Author's Note:**

> set in some unspecific college au where shifty and popeye are dorm-mates, while tab shares an apartment with smokey, skinny, and blithe, because why the heck not.
> 
> As always, this fic is based off the fictional portrayals from HBO's Band of Brothers miniseries, and not the real life guys!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

“Now, I just need your opinion,” Shifty says, doing an about-face in the middle of his bedroom floor. “White or orange?”

Spread out across his bed, lazy as a cat basking in the sun, Shifty’s roommate hardly bothers to look up. Popeye’s disinterest in Shifty’s current crisis is a little impressive. He has his phone suspended precariously over his face, and is far more occupied with watching a Lets Play on YouTube than administering advice. With a sigh, Shifty stalks over to the bed and allows one of the shirts he holds to dangle right in his friend’s face.

This is what finally gets Popeye to put his phone down. He grunts in annoyance as he tips his head back; Shifty has never seen someone look so bored while staring at him upside-down.

“What do I look like to you? One of those _Runway Project_ people?”

“Nah, you're only half as pretty.” With renewed eagerness, Shifty holds the two shirts in front of his chest. “What d’you think?”

Popeye sighs, rolling over. The bed screams beneath the movement, perpetually noisy mattress setting the soundtrack for Shifty’s racing pulse and mounting nerves. His best friend balances his chin in his hand and frowns.

“I have things to do, ya know,” Popeye says, and Shifty isn't sure whether he wants to laugh out loud or groan.

“What things?”

 _“Things.”_ Each syllable is dragged out as if being forcibly extracted from Popeye’s tongue. Shifty can't help but pout, which only makes a smirk appear on his friend’s round face.

“Are your things more important than my date?”

“Yes.” Popeye lifts up his phone again. As Shifty’s gaze flickers from one shirt to the other, his face contorts into a wince. Both choices seem awful; both choices stand no chance of making him look good next to Tab.

“This is going to be a train wreck,” he mutters.

This uncharacteristic negativity is what finally gets Popeye to sit up. Shifty sets the two shirts down on his bed before flopping into his desk chair, slumping over with a tiny huff. He isn't an idiot -- he knows he's being overdramatic, which isn't like him at all. He's good at keeping a level head, and takes pride in his steady nerves; he can handle most crises without a problem. But this isn't just any old thing; he's about to go on a _date_ with _Tab._

Shifty has been on dates before, but tonight is different for several reasons. It's his first date with a guy; it's his first date with someone he _really_ likes; and it's his first date that’s ever left him buzzing with so much nervous energy, to the point that he feels he could jump off the bed and start flying around the room.

Popeye huffs, finally pulling himself into a sitting position. He hunches on his knees, taking in his best friend’s despair, and can't help rolling his eyes. “Why are you worried? When you first met the boy, you were wearin’ overalls, weren’cha?”

Shifty lifts his head, just a bit. “What's wrong with overalls?”

“Well, long as you're trying to get a date who isn't a pig or horse, nothing at all.”

Shifty looks up at him, nose scrunching up in bewilderment. His friend grins at him, all sunshine and inappropriate amusement. “Wear what you want, Shifty. Tab’s all starry-eyed for you either way.”

This is true, and Shifty knows it. He only has to think of the way Tab grinned when Shifty finally agreed to have dinner with him, or of how he'd been all but dancing on air for the rest of that day. Tab couldn't be more excited for this date -- which only makes Shifty more eager than ever to make it good.

“I want it to be just right! I want to look good, so he knows I put in the effort and that I'm trying, and that I want to be on a date with him, and that I care enough --”

When Shifty starts rambling, he doesn't stop. Knowing this, Popeye cuts him off at the first opportunity. “Fine,” he says with a huff, pulling himself off the bed. His joints pop, but he pays them no mind as he crosses the bedroom to the closet. “Long as I don't have to hear about it anymore, wear the light blue one.”

“Light blue?”

“This one.” Popeye brandishes a nicely-pressed button-down that Shifty had worried looked too formal for the occasion. “Why the hell would you wear _orange,_ Shifty? Thought you were tryin’ to impress him.”

Shifty doesn't know what's wrong with orange, but Popeye’s looking at him as if he was just dumb enough to stick his hand over the mouth of a shotgun. Knowing that he's walked out of the house wearing things that have made complete strangers cringe before, Shifty decides he's better off trusting his friend’s guidance on this one.

He takes the shirt with a grin. “Thanks, Popeye,” he says warmly, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You’re a pal.”

Popeye rolls his eyes and retreats to his bed once more, muttering something about how Shifty needs to learn to dress himself. Cheerfully ignoring his friend, Shifty starts to get dressed once more. He only has half an hour left before he's due to meet Tab, and he wants to be ready.

* * *

 

“Half an hour! We've got half an hour!”

“Where's the cologne?”

“Where’d you assholes put my nice shoes?”

“Christ, Tab, did you brush your teeth today or what?”

Floyd is in the center of a hurricane, and he isn't sure whether to be grateful or offended that his roommates have decided he needs every ounce of help he can get before his date tonight -- or, what has become collectively known as, _“our date, Tab’s fate.”_

That isn't doing anything to calm the buzz of anxiety in his stomach; neither are his roommates, all three of them buzzing around like flies on a summer day. Smokey has half his body buried in Floyd’s closet, every so often tossing out an article of clothing he deems wearable. Most of these are quickly discarded by Blithe, who is frighteningly focused as he compares colors and patterns, trying to decide what outfit works best with Floyd’s eyes. Skinny has both hands buried in Floyd’s hair, and has been doing the same thing for the past ten minutes (Floyd wouldn't be surprised if he got his hands stuck and is just too proud to ask for help). What that thing is, Floyd has no clue -- Skinny says he's “fixing his hair”, but it feels more like a scalp massage at this point.

Floyd grits his teeth in barely suppressed annoyance. He has no clue why this is necessary; they all know this is far from his first date. “I don't need all this help, you know.”

Smokey grins over his shoulder, still half-buried in the closet. “We’re not trying to help you, we’re trying to help Shifty. He's the one that's going to have to put up with you!”

Floyd shoots him a middle finger in response; Smokey tosses a sweater right back. Never mind that it’s the middle of June, and Blithe discards the sweater to the side (where a pile of other rejected clothes is steadily growing) with a murmur under his breath. He takes Floyd’s outstretched arm as the perfect opportunity to press a white shirt to his bicep, studying the contrast against his skin. He must like something, because his eyes light up approvingly.

“You’re going to that fancy place, right? Down by the beach?”

“It’s not that fancy. I could wear a t-shirt.”

“You could not wear a t-shirt,” Blithe says in a surprisingly loud voice. Skinny snorts, giving Floyd’s hair a tug that has him cringing, as Blithe proceeds to press the shirt to Floyd’s bare chest. Smokey finally decides to extract himself from the closet, the wide grin on his face spelling nothing good.

“Your problem,” he says, tossing an arm around Floyd’s shoulders (accidentally smacking Skinny in the process), “is that you think you can get away with whatever you like?”

Floyd grits his teeth. “I think I’m good looking enough that I --”

“That only counts for so much,” interjects Skinny automatically. “Just because you look like a Ken doll doesn’t mean you’re allowed to dress like one.”

“Why not?” He chooses not to react to the Ken doll comment, but Smokey leers anyway.

“You have to make more of an impact than that. The clothes make the man, Bunny.”

“Also, you’ve known him this long,” chips in Skinny. “It’s a bit too late to convince him you’re a stand-up guy.”

He swats away his friend’s hand as Smokey tries to paw at his ear. He’s used to his roommates’ jeering, and their nicknames, and their teasing him for the amount of condoms he has strategically hidden around the house (in every room, as Blithe discovered while digging under his bed one morning). What he's not used to is being actually nervous for a date -- that's something he hasn't felt in a long time.

Maybe it's because Shifty is so damn _nice,_ and Floyd doesn't usually go for “nice” people. Maybe it's because he already knows Shifty. It's different from being on a date with a stranger, because he's friends with Shifty and he knows he likes him; but Shifty also knows him, including a lot of flaws Floyd doesn't like to show off on dates. Shifty was there the time Floyd got stuck on the roof in his underwear, and the time he vaulted an entire table to get away from a plastic spider. Shifty knows that past all of Floyd’s charms, he's actually sort of a spaz.

And that’s _terrifying._

That's why this date has to go well. Floyd wants Shifty to know that he's willing to put in the effort, and he does care. First impressions are important, but since Floyd can't have that he's going to try his damnedest to make Shifty see he's serious about this.

“If you really want to impress him,” Blithe pipes up suddenly, “it should be more about showing you care. How you look and where you go is important, but it can't measure up to how you act. Show him how you feel, if you really mean it.”

Blithe doesn't talk a lot at once, but when he does he usually says something that makes Floyd need to sit down in a quiet place and think for a while. He doesn't have that opportunity now, so all he can do is try to mull over Blithe’s words. How does he really feel about Shifty? Well, hell, he's pretty sure he's a little in love with him. Who wouldn't be in love with Shifty? He's handsome, and kind, and gentle, and smart --

Floyd is totally in love with Shifty.

If Blithe is right… if his feelings are really what matters, and if his feelings are really true… maybe Floyd doesn't have to be nervous at all.

Skinny makes a coughing noise that might be a laugh. “Thanks for the input, Alby, but it's not that easy. You don't have a girlfriend, so --”

Blithe mumbles something. The sight of Blithe actually interrupting someone is surprising enough that even Skinny pauses in his deep-scalp massage to frown at him.

“What was that?” prompts Floyd.

“I have a girlfriend,” says Blithe in a slightly louder tone, seeming to regret he said anything at all. His cheeks are the color of cherries, and he keeps his head down to avoid meeting their gazes.

“Since when?” Skinny demands, sounding incredulous.

In response, Blithe just shuffles through his phone for a few seconds before pulling up a selfie of himself, with a very attractive redheaded girl pressing her lips to his cheek. “This is Kay. We've been going steady for six months now.”

Skinny crumples forward (on top of Floyd) with a groan. “The guy says shit like ‘going steady’ and _he's_ the one with a girlfriend?”

By now, Floyd's tolerance has reached a record low. “I might be getting my own boyfriend tonight if you assholes would leave me alone!”

“It's cute that he thinks he can do this alone,” says Smokey solemnly, before his gaze swivels around the room. “Where'd the shaving stuff go?”

Like hell is he letting any one of these maniacs near his face with a razor. Floyd eyes the distance to the door, and weighs his chances of making a break for it before any of the three can catch up.

Skinny’s hands are still firmly locked in his hair, and Smokey rounds Floyd’s side to position himself right in front of his laugh. Blithe smirks, and it dawns on Floyd that they all knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Just trust us,” says Smokey with a grin. Floyd knows he has no other choice; he can only wince and prepares for whatever's to come next. 

* * *

 

Somehow after everything -- accosting reluctant friends, being forced into unwanted makeovers, anxiety and worry and giddy excitement -- they meet each other outside the restaurant.

The sun is just starting to set, casting the beach in a haze of orange and gold. Dusk glints off the water the same way it glints off of Floyd’s eyes, which light up when he spots his date. Shifty looks tan against the warm backdrop, his bangs falling gently over his forehead like spun bronze. When he catches Floyd’s eyes he jolts upright, shoulders straightening. Floyd waves as he approaches.

“Hi,” says Shifty, grin brighter than the setting sun.

“Hi,” Floyd replies. His chest feels lighter than it has since the moment Shifty agreed to meet him; all the anxieties that clung to him all day seem to melt away at once, and he's finally able to breathe. “You look amazing.”

“So do you.”

Shifty reaches out. Their hands link. Together, they walk into the restaurant.

Whatever the rest of the night holds, they'll both be ready for it.


End file.
